International Political Will

It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and a cold wind blew waves of brown dust down the streets.

I walked out of the safe doors of the guesthouse, past the AK-47-toting guard standing on the sidewalk, his scarf pulled up over his face to guard against cold or dust; probably both.

I try to walk like I’ve been here before, but in the back of my mind is every kidnapping, every car-bomb - every morbid possibility. It was only yesterday morning during my breakfast that a suicide car-bomber killed one and injured four civilians only 1,000 yards from here.

My hands feel conspicuous. I shove them into my pants pockets. I hang them at my side. I put one in and one out.

Nothing works. I’m still extremely nervous.

I round the corner and turn left - a school and playground is off to my right. Women in blue burqas are walking their children home after school; some of the women only wear a simple shawl over their hair. The burqa is not imposed nor necessary for women in Kabul, but it is not absent, either.

I run across the street, dodging two yellow taxis and a white UN vehicle. There are no crosswalks in this city, and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want to stand still to wait for one anyway.

A group of four men with long black beards and sporting baggy camouflage fatigues are sitting in a circle in a corner of the playground next to the fence. As I pass by I smell the distinct aroma of marijuana smoke. But I don’t stare; I don’t even look. I keep walking.

A man pushes a handcart covered with tiny bananas down the sidewalk. Someone has hung coats for sale from the fence. Another man walks by holding an accordion-style plastic display of phone cards.

It feels somewhat normal, if that’s possible. No one is staring, no one is looking. In fact, I was stared at more in rural Japan.

There’s a supermarket across the street. I make my way around some men in heavy cloth-wrapped pakols loitering around the entrance. I get to the door, anxious to get inside and catch my breath. I pull on the handle.

It’s locked. It won’t open.

Shit. What time is it? Are they closed for prayers?

I pull on the other door. Nothing. Locked.

Damn it. Now I’m conspicuous. What do I do? Keep walking? I can’t go back to the guesthouse with nothing. Then all the locals in the lobby will know I got scared.

A young man sitting next to the door wearing a beige colored scarf and a small pakol is looking at me now, smiling. He makes a motion with his hands and says something in Dari that I don’t even begin to understand.

I look at him puzzled, and he repeats himself, making the motion. Then a revelation: PUSH.

I push the door and it opens easily. I look back at the man, smile, and thank him. He laughs.

Well, I’ve managed to draw attention to myself now.

I get inside and grab what I came for - shaving cream and a bar of soap. The man behind the counter throws it in a small plastic bag. I head out the door, ready to continue.

Now I draw looks. With a bag in my hand it’s obvious I have money.

A woman in a stained and dirty burqa holds out her weathered hand, the only thing visible sticking out from the hanging folds of her robe that was at one time blue.

An older one-legged man wearing a long salwar kameez and an olive-green pakol holds out a hand, leaning on one crutch to balance himself. He grins through his long and bushy grey beard.

A young boy, perhaps only ten years old, approaches with a rusted and burnt tin can hanging from a wire. He swings it in a concentric circle, and smoke puffs out from small holes in the side. He says something in Dari, holding out his hand.

He pauses and I look inside the tin. There’s a small piece of charcoaled wood, its ember still faintly red. He sprinkles something on top and it crackles over the heat, making tiny sparks. He doesn’t stop talking, almost monotonously chanting.

He’s offering to bless me with the smoke, to keep away evil spirits. I smile.

“Neh, tashakor. Paysa nadarum,“ I tell him. No thank you. I have no money.

He’s persistent, following me down the street. I cross through the traffic and find he’s still at my side, swinging the tin can from the wire and circling around me, continually chanting.

Finally I get to the end of the block and he stops in his tracks. It must be the end of his turf. But now he’s piqued my interest, and I can’t bring myself to ignore him. I feel at least that a “goodbye” is in order. I turn around and look at him.

He beams with a big smile. “Tomorrow?” he says in English.

“Okay.”

He turns and runs back down the street toward the market, the tin swinging at his side.

Tags: Afghanistan, Afghanistan, streets, foreigner, Kabul

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